Page 2

Chapter Two

Savvy

I 'm still shaking when the diner door slams behind Victor and Royce. The sound of metal crunching in the parking lot makes me flinch—another reminder of what those monsters are capable of. Not the green one lying unconscious on my diner floor—the human ones.

"Oh God," I whisper, rushing to kneel beside him. Vargan. That's what his name badge on his leather jacket says.

He's massive, even sprawled across the linoleum like this. I've never been this close to an Orc before. His skin is a deep olive-green with gold flecks that catch in the fluorescent lighting. The tusks protruding from his lower jaw should terrify me, but all I can think about is how he stood up for me when no one else would.

"Hey," I say, gently shaking his shoulder. "Vargan, wake up."

His eyes flutter open—amber, like honey in sunlight—and focus on me with startling clarity.

"Can you stand?" I ask.

He grunts, pushing himself up on one elbow. "Been through worse."

I slide my arm under his shoulder, which is like trying to lift a mountain. He allows it, though I know my help is mostly symbolic. Together we get him to his feet. He sways slightly, one hand going to his ribs.

"Your bike," I say, glancing toward the parking lot. "They hit it with their truck."

His jaw tightens, tusks glinting. "I saw."

Behind the counter, Helen, my second waitress, emerges from where she'd been hiding, her face pale with shock. "Savvy, are you alright? Should I call the sheriff?"

I shake my head. "You know that won't help. Sheriff Dawson is Victor's puppet." I look at her trembling hands. "You should go home, Helen. I'll close up."

She hesitates, looking between me and Vargan. "You sure?"

"Go," I say firmly. "I've already had a hard enough time keeping a cook in this diner. I'm pretty sure that one won't be back after tonight," I add, nodding toward the kitchen where our latest fry cook had already fled through the back door. "I can't afford to lose you too."

Helen nods, grabbing her purse from under the counter. "Call me if you need anything," she says, giving Vargan one last wary look before slipping out the door.

I guide him outside, his weight heavy against me. The sun is setting, casting shadows across what's left of his motorcycle. It's a mangled heap of metal and chrome, the custom work obvious even to my untrained eye. This wasn't just transportation—this was craftsmanship.

"Can it be fixed?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

He pulls away from me to kneel beside the wreckage, running a massive hand over a twisted piece of metal that might have once been a handlebar. "Yes. With time, tools, parts." He looks up at me. "Is there a mechanic in town?"

I shake my head. "Silas Granger had a shop, but Victor ran him out last year. Raised his rent until he couldn't pay."

Vargan stands, wincing. "Then I'll buy a truck. Load this up. Fix it elsewhere."

I stare at him. Blood trickles from a cut above his eye. His breathing is labored, one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs. He can barely stand, let alone drive.

"You're in no condition to go anywhere," I say firmly.

"Not your problem," he growls, echoing his words from earlier.

"You made it my problem when you decided to play hero," I snap, then immediately regret my tone. "Look, you need to get cleaned up. Let me help you, at least until you can stand without looking like you're about to pass out again."

He studies me, suspicion plain on his face. "Why?"

I don't have a good answer for that. Because you stood up for me? Because I don't want your blood on my conscience? Because Victor will find you before you make it five miles out of town? Because that was his plan all along.

"Because I don't like owing debts," I say finally.

Something like amusement flashes in his eyes. "You don't owe me anything."

"My diner, my rules," I counter. "Now come on. I need to clean up these cuts before they get infected."

Back inside, I flip the "CLOSED" sign and lock the door. The place is a mess—overturned tables, broken dishes, blood on the floor. Tomorrow's problem. Right now, I need to focus on the wounded Orc eyeing me warily from across the room.

"This way," I say, leading him to the small bathroom in the back.

I grab the first aid kit from beneath the sink—the heavy-duty one Dad insisted on keeping stocked. Dad, who patched up more than one brawler in his day. The memory stings, but I push it away. No time for ghosts.

"Sit," I command, pointing to the closed toilet lid.

Surprisingly, he complies, though he has to duck to avoid hitting his head on the light fixture. In the small space, he seems even larger, his presence filling every corner.

I wet a clean towel and step closer, hesitating only briefly before tilting his face toward the light. His skin is hot beneath my fingers, fever-warm.

"Do Orcs run hotter than humans?" I ask, dabbing at the cut above his eye.

"Yes." His voice is a low rumble in the tiny room. "Higher metabolism."

I work in silence for a moment, cleaning away blood to reveal a deep gash. "This needs stitches."

"It'll heal."

"It'll scar."

He gives me a look that makes me flush. Of course. What's one more scar among so many?

As I clean his wounds, I can't help but notice the details of him—the scars that map his skin like roads on a forgotten map, the solid muscle beneath my fingers, the way he holds himself perfectly still despite what must be considerable pain. There's raw power here, but also restraint.

I shouldn't be noticing these things. I shouldn't be feeling this... whatever it is... buzzing beneath my skin where my fingers brush against him. This isn't right. He's an Orc. He's dangerous. So why does this feel so...safe?

My hand jerks away like I've been burned. This is ridiculous. Attraction isn't safe. Attraction leads to trust, and trust gets you hurt. You've been stupid before, Savvy. Don't do it again.

"Your ribs," I say, my voice harsher than intended. "Let me see."

Vargan studies me for a long moment, then slowly unzips his leather jacket. He's wearing a black t-shirt underneath that he carefully pulls up to reveal a torso landscaped with scars, intricate Orc clan tattoos, and fresh bruises blooming purple against green skin.

But it’s the bloodied bandage tied haphazardly around his waist that draws my attention.

I suck in a breath. "Jesus."

"I've had worse," he says, grimacing when I pull away the bandage.

“I’d say you’ve had worse recently. What the hell is this?” It’s angry and red, and the blood seems freshly dried, but the skin has already begun to heal around the wound. I’ve never seen anything like it. “Did you get stabbed?

“It’s nothing.”

Nothing, huh? This guy is a walking bar brawl. The evidence is written all over him.

I grab the clean cotton padding and an elastic bandage from the kit and wrap his ribs, trying to keep my touch clinical. "I think they're bruised, not broken. They’ve swollen pretty badly, though. You should really see a doctor."

"Not an option."

I understand what he isn't saying. I wouldn’t want to explain that stab wound either. Besides, the nearest doctor is in the next town over, and Victor would make sure he never made it there.

“I’ll do the best I can, but I’m not sure how this will all heal up.”

A hint of a smile curves his mouth. "We heal faster than humans. I’ll be fine."

As I work, my gaze skims over half a dozen other healed scars that look deep enough to have been serious injuries. "You must love picking fights."

His expression darkens. "They have a way of finding me."

I secure the end of the bandage and step back, suddenly needing space between us. "Did you win that one? The fight from a few days ago?"

He looks at me, his amber eyes unreadable. "I’m still here, and he isn’t so…"

The words hang in the air between us. I try to push their meaning out of my mind.

"What happened then?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Tried to help someone." His voice is bitter. "Never works out well for my kind."

I don't know if I believe him. I want to. The way he stood up for me, a stranger—that's not the action of someone who hurts people for fun. But I've been wrong before. Catastrophically wrong. Royce is proof of that.

"Look," I say, putting the first aid supplies away, "you're in no shape to travel tonight. You can crash at my place, get your bearings, figure out your next move tomorrow."

He looks surprised. "Why would you do that?"

I think of Victor and Royce, of what they'd do if they found Vargan vulnerable. I think of what they'd make him do—the strong-arming, the threats, the violence against people who've lived here all their lives. Victor wants him as a weapon against the town. That's why he wrecked his bike. To keep him here. I could be wrong in what I overhead, but I can’t take that chance.

"Because you shouldn't be staying in this town," I say honestly. "But you're not going to make it out tonight. So one night, that's it. Then you're gone."

He nods slowly. "One night."

"One night," I repeat, helping him up from the toilet. "I live in the farmhouse across the street. You think you can make it that far?"

Vargan groans but lets me put an arm around him for support. "Do I have a choice?"

I laugh. "Not unless you want to sleep on the diner floor tonight."

"I can make it," he says.

We navigate through the diner, stopping at the door so I can lock up behind us.

Outside, the night has settled fully over Shadow Ridge. The street lamps that still work cast pools of hazy light across the empty road, barely illuminating the white farmhouse across the street. It's a short walk, but with Vargan leaning heavily against me, it feels like miles.

"You live alone?" he asks as we cross the parking lot, his voice strained with the effort of walking.

"With my brother," I answer, then realize I probably shouldn't have told him that. "He's fifteen. Smart. Strong." The implied threat is clear: Don't try anything.

Vargan just nods, his eyes scanning the dark street. "This town is dying."

It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Victor's been buying everything up. Raising rents until people can't pay, then swooping in with offers of just enough to get people out of town. He's selling it all to some developer."

"And you?"

I grip his waist tighter as we cross the street, helping him up the curb. "Greene's was my dad's. The house, the farm—it's all I have left of him. I'm not selling."

He doesn't respond to that, and we navigate the rest of the way in silence. The night air carries the scent of honeysuckle and dust, a familiar smell that does nothing to ease the strangeness of helping a wounded Orc to my front door.

The house comes into view—a two-story farmhouse that's seen better days. The white paint is peeling, the porch sags slightly, but it's home. My home. The one thing I won't let Victor take from me.

"Willie?" I call as we enter. No answer. He must be at Jacob's again. Usually it pisses me off that he spends more time at his friend's house than at home, but tonight, I'm thankful.

I lead Vargan to the living room, gesturing to the couch. "It's not much, but—"

"It's fine," he says, lowering himself carefully onto the cushions. They protest under his weight but hold.

I stand there awkwardly, suddenly aware of how insane this is. I've brought a strange man—no, not even a man, an Orc—into my home. A fighter. Someone dangerous enough that Victor wants him as a weapon.

He shouldn't be staying in my house. Not with Willie around. But if I let him leave, he won't make it out of town before Victor picks him up.

"I'll get you some blankets," I say, retreating to the linen closet.

When I return, Vargan has removed his leather jacket and draped it over the arm of the couch. I quickly check it for weapons—a move that doesn't escape his notice.

"I don't carry guns," he says quietly.

"Smart, considering," I reply, avoiding his eyes as I hand him the blankets.

His backpack sits on the floor beside him—small for someone his size, like it contains only the essentials. An escape kit.

"Anything else I can get you?" I ask.

"Water," he says almost apologetically. "And some painkillers if you have any."

"Right, of course." I rush to the kitchen, grateful for something to do. I fill a glass with water and grab the bottle of pills from the cabinet. How many would an orc his size need to dull the pain? I don’t have a clue.

When I return, he's leaning back with his eyes closed, looking every bit as exhausted as I feel. He opens them as I approach, taking the offerings with a nod of thanks.

"One night," I remind him, then reach down and pick up his backpack. His eyes narrow, but he doesn't protest. "I'll keep this safe for you."

I think he’s going to argue, but he sinks back into the couch, and his eyes roll closed.

I retreat to my bedroom, locking the door behind me. I set his backpack on the floor, then think better of it. I slide it under my bed, out of sight. I don’t want to be tempted to snoop, but I also don’t want him to have easy access to anything he could use against me.

As I change into sleep clothes, the last hour crashs over me like a rogue wave. An Orc in my living room. Victor and Royce, more dangerous than ever. The diner, a mess that Helen and I will have to deal with tomorrow.

I crawl into bed, exhausted but wired. Every creak of the house makes me tense. After twenty minutes of staring at the ceiling, I get back up and push my dresser in front of the door. He is an Orc, after all, and a little lock won't stop him if he decides to come in.

I return to bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. He'll be gone tomorrow, and things can return to normal. Or what passes for normal in Shadow Ridge these days.

But as I drift toward sleep, I can't shake the memory of his eyes—amber, intelligent, wounded—or the way something inside me responded to his touch. Something I haven't felt since...

No. Don't go there, Savvy. Remember what happened last time you trusted a man who seemed different. Remember how that turned out.

Tomorrow, he'll be gone. And that's for the best.

It has to be.